


Just This Once

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Retirement!lock, but Not A Happy Ending Either, not a sad ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to get Sherlock the best gift possible for his best friends 40<sup>th</sup> birthday, so when he finds out he’s still a virgin he decides sex is the perfect gift, but what will he do when Sherlock insists he will let no one but a very straight John pop his cherry? Not sad, but not really happy, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just This Once

 

Sherlock had woken John out of bed many times, and had found you could always tell the state of his relationships by his responses, and it had been invaluable information to him. Now that he was familiar with the pattern, he knew precisely _how_ to wake John. In the beginning of the relationship, when they were having lots of wild sex, he awoke slowly and with much confusion and a requirement that coffee be present. If he were getting sex on a regular basis, but not too often, he woke easily and not so miserably even if it had only been a few hours since he went to bed; on those days a slice of toast was enough to get him out of bed and out the door to a case. If he weren’t getting any sex at all because he was single he woke in the same state because he was masturbating regularly. However, if he were seeing someone and she weren’t allowing him sex he would wake up with a raging erection and an even worse temper. Tonight was one of those nights.  
 

“I am not going with you to fucking India in the middle of the fucking night!” John shouted, his erection jutting out of his pants and distracting Sherlock a bit. Apparently he was too tired to realize the bedclothes weren’t hiding it even a little bit.

  
“John, there’s been a _bombing_ it’s _urgent_.”

  
“Don’t pretend you give a fuck,” John sneered. He did that when he wasn’t having sex- said ‘fuck’ a lot.

  
“We’ll make good money off it?” Sherlock tried, but John wasn’t having any of it. He rolled over and pretended he was going back to sleep, but Sherlock could see where his hand had strayed to.

  
“Goodnight Sherlock.”

  
“I’m sure you can masterbate in the bathroom on the plane on the way over there! Joooooohn! Come oooooon!”

  
“Will you stop _whinging_ like that? What are you going on about _wanking_ for?”

  
“Because it’s obvious that you’re only putting me off so you can!” Sherlock snapped irritably, “If I leave, you’ll wank yourself for over an hour- just because you can- then come downstairs, shower, and say you’ve had enough sleep and you’re willing to go. So I’m suggesting we change the order of events for expediency sake and _get a move on_!”

  
John gave him a mutinous glare over his shoulder and did something Sherlock actually hadn’t expected. He tossed the cover’s aside, rolled onto his back, gripped his cock in hand, closed his eyes, and tossed off fast and hard. Sherlock was left staring at him, mouth dry as the desert and jaw dropped, as the man gave himself several good hard pulls, grunted, arched straight off the bed on his heels, and came hard across his sleep shirt. John then tugged the shirt off, careful not to get his own spunk all over himself, and used the dry parts to clean himself up.

  
“There. Happy? I’m still not going. Now piss off!”

  
John rolled back over again, covers once more covering his near nudity, and was snoring before Sherlock collected himself and slipped quietly out of his room. Instead of leaving without John or going to sulk like he usually would on the rare occasions John shot him down, Sherlock hurried to his room. There he stripped off his bottoms, yanked open his drawer, pulled out a bottle of lube, and set about satisfying his _own_ raging desires. Rarely did Sherlock need to resort to such actions, but the sight of John stroking his hand up and down his hard shaft…

  
Sherlock was on his knees on his bed, gripping his headboard with one hand while he fisted his slick cock with the other. In his mind it was John’s hand, and the man was moaning the way he sometimes heard him in the shower: soft and restrained but oh, so beautifully gravely and wanton. It didn’t take long, not with how long it had been since the last time he’d done this or had it done for him via a nocturnal emission. Sherlock gasped, and humped his hand eagerly as that coil of desire snapped taught in his body and he came in torrents. Trembling with the force of his release. Sherlock mimicked John in cleaning himself up with his shirt, re-dressed in case John changed his mind about the trip, and then went to his chair to sulk.

  
It was all a bit much and Sherlock was headed for full out depression between being denied both John’s company _and_ his body; not that John knew he was denying Sherlock his body, but he had been for years now. It had been during his time away after the Reichenbach Fall that Sherlock had realized he’d fallen in love with his heterosexual flatmate. John had simply been the only thought in his mind other than destroying Moriarty’s network; and he had preoccupied it quite relentlessly. Rather than be distressed by it, he had faced it head on and decided it was really the best this way. Sherlock was too emotional to get on with anyone for an extended period of time, had too wild a life to take on fleeting lovers or engage prostitutes, and had only one steady friend in John Watson. It made sense for him to fall for him, but not to engage him at the risk of so precious a friendship. So Sherlock had taken to loving him from afar, and in the years since his return had been supportive of him through the tail end of his marriage, the death of his wife, and the resurrection of his shitty dating life. So it was with a heavy heart that he sat in their living room – John had moved back in after Mary’s death – and mourned his lost case, but not his lost love, because why would he mourn a lost love when John was right upstairs?

  
Finally John staggered down the stairs a few hours later when the sun was well and truly up. He puttered about making tea and grunting about the lack of bread for toast. When he came out into the living room he supplied Sherlock with his tea and collapsed into his favorite chair.

  
“Did you fetch up the newspaper?”

  
Sherlock didn’t reply.

  
“So we’re down to sulking, then?”

  
No reply.

  
“I have a right to refuse you a trip to India at one in the morning you know.”

  
“Three.”

  
“What?”

  
“Three in the morning.”

  
“Ah, yes, because two hours makes a world of difference.”

  
“No, but evidently three does, since you only slept for that much longer,” Sherlock groused.

  
“Damn it, Sherlock, I’m too old to be playing these games with you. I’ll be fifty soon, you know?”

  
“And I’ll be forty, and you’ve been making the same complaint since you were that old, I hardly see the big deal.”

  
“You… You’re turning forty? When?”

  
“Same time as every year. Tomorrow.”

  
John’s sudden change of mood was rather unexpected. It seemed this man could still surprise him. John stood up,  
marked the calendar, and practically bounced back over to him.

  
“You’ve always refused to tell me your birthday before, and this is a big one! We’re going out!”

  
“Why?”

  
“Because it’s your birthday tomorrow!”

  
“No thank you,” Sherlock replied, still not moving from his slouch on the sofa.

  
“Sherlock!” John fussed.

  
“Now who’s whinging?”

  
“What do you want?”

  
“Pardon?”

  
“What do you want for your birthday?”

_  
You_. _No! Stop it, Sherlock! His friendship is too important for that teenaged melodrama!_

  
“Nothing.”

  
“ _Sherlock!_ ”

  
“A new Bunsen burner.”

  
“That’s it?”

  
“Some test tubes?”

  
“What kind of party shall we have? Let’s invite Lestrade and Molly!”

  
“Oh, yes, the whole gang, how delightful,” Sherlock sneered sarcastically.

  
“What would you rather do, go to India and look at blown up bits of wall and people?”

  
“Yes. Lovely. Let’s go.”

  
John sighed, apparently admitting defeat, and stood up to go pack. As usual, John packed his own bag and Sherlock’s. On his way out of his room he gave Sherlock a disgusted look, however, which was not usual since Sherlock generally kept his room scrupulously clean.

  
“Sherlock, if I’m going to keep packing your stuff for you, could you not leave your… _leavings_ around?”

  
“My what?”

  
“Your lube and spunk covered shirt. I stepped on it. Who would have thought silk could keep semen from drying for that long, but there you have it, quite cold and sticky. And slippery; I just about broke my neck.”

  
Sherlock snorted.

  
“We need to get you a girlfriend.”

  
“Not my area.”

  
“Not your area, what _is_ your area, and don’t say bombings in India. That’s a bit not good, Sherlock. So. Men?”

  
“No.”

  
“Women?”

  
“I already answered that, John.”

  
“Well you won’t convince me you’re asexual, I’ve just trodden in the proof you’re not. Come on then, what does the  
great Sherlock Holmes think of while wanking?”

  
“I’ve called a cab, it should be here momentarily, and the plane tickets are booked in my name.”

  
“Sherlock,” John sighed, and then suddenly looked alarmed.

  
John crossed the room, dumped Sherlock’s legs off the couch, and sat on the end with a worried look on his face and his hands clasped together. Sherlock sat up as well, though slowly, and tried to figure out what had altered the mood to one so serious.

  
“It’s not,” John started, keeping his eyes firmly on the fireplace, “It’s not something _alarming_ is it?”

_  
Fuck!_

  
“John, for the sake of our friendship, I’d like you not to pursue this line of questioning.”

  
John was silent a moment, rubbing at his hands, and Sherlock knew the signs of anxiety in his flatmate so well that it began to make _him_ anxious as well.

  
“No. No, I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I think you’d better tell me. We live high profile lives, if I can keep you from temptation, I will. So out with it. Is it something simple like a public places kink? Or something serious like animals?”

  
Sherlock blinked. Well, that was a different turn.

  
“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, not sure how to reply.

  
“Just… tell me it’s not kids, Sherlock, I know you’ve got this whole kid in an adults body thing going…”

  
“Good gods, no!” Sherlock stammered in alarm.

  
“Oh, thank gods,” John breathed, looking relieved, “That’s fine, anything else I can handle just… out with it.”

  
“I’m going to check to see if the cab is here.”

  
“It’s corpses, isn’t it?” John asked in a rush.

  
“No!” Sherlock hurried down the stairs despite the fact that was unnecessary, glanced out the front door, swore angrily,  
and paced the downstairs hall a moment. John followed him downstairs with both suitcases.

  
“Look, I’ll be fine with it. I just want to be forewarned. If it’s something illegal, I’ll do my best to watch your back, okay?”

  
“I haven’t a kink, John. Let it go. Consider it my birthday present.”

  
“Sherlock, I’m your best… basically your only friend. Talk. To. Me. I can help. Really I can.”

  
“If you want to help,” Sherlock hissed, “If you want to _keep me from temptation_ , you might try not _wanking_ yourself in front of me!”

  
John blinked, then seemed to recall, then his eyes widened in surprise.

  
“Oh, so… men then?”

  
Sherlock sighed in frustration and ran a hand over his face.

  
“Not men, John. _You_. Just you.”

  
“Me… I… I’m straight, Sherlock, it can’t be me. It has to be someone else.”

  
“No, it _has_ to be you. You are the only person who understands me, is patient enough to deal with me daily, admires my work, and looks out for me on a regular basis. You’re my only friend, my only love interest, and the only sexual attraction I have- or ever have _had_ \- and likely ever will have.”

  
“The only…” John’s brain seemed to have short-circuited; he was staring at Sherlock with wide eyes and blinking rapidly and often.

  
“Ah! Finally! The cab’s here!” Sherlock announced in relief.

  
The cab ride was long and silent, so too was the plane ride. John seemed in a state of contemplation, but when Sherlock tested the waters and invaded his personal space on the pretense of getting a magazine he didn’t flinch away, so at the very least he wasn’t developing some sort of homophobic reaction. When they arrived in India the official there was practically in tears, he was so relieved to see them. They were ushered to the scene, where clean up hadn’t even begun yet, and John acted his normal self by helping Sherlock here and there and generally fussing over him protectively.

  
It turned out to be rather cut and dry so Sherlock told them off for wasting his time, pointed them in the right direction, and then headed to their complementary hotel to relax.

  
“Sorry your birthday bombing wasn’t any fun, Sherlock,” John teased when they got there.

  
“Well, you can’t have everything,” Sherlock grinned and flopped down to see what sort of crap telly India had.

  
John sat beside him on the bed. As usual they’d been assumed a couple and given only one double bed, but they’d long ago gotten used to sharing. John would put a pillow in between and they’d ignore each other all night long. Well… John would ignore him. Sherlock would creepily smell his hair and wrap an arm around him once he’d fallen asleep, but remove it before he did so as well. What? He didn’t _touch_ him. Just held him a bit.

  
 “So… how long have you felt like this?”

  
“A few years,” Sherlock replied, knowing this was going to come up eventually, “I’m rather relieved you’re taking this so well.”

  
“Well, you’re my best mate, I’ve got to, haven’t I?”

  
“Not really, you could have freaked out and moved to another flat. You aren’t, are you?”

  
“Moving? No. Not unless you want me to.”

  
“No.”

  
“Good. That’s… good.”

  
Silence and more crap T.V. It turned out it was quite the same in India, the only exception being John couldn’t understand what they were saying and his eyes were glazing over. Sherlock found something they could both watch in English.

  
“I haven’t seen this show since I was a kid,” John commented.

  
“Mmm, I was wondering at the low resolution.”

  
They watched in silence a bit and then John broached the subject again.

  
“So what did you mean when you said I was the only person you’ve ever been sexually attracted to?”

  
“I do believe your answer is in your question, John,” Sherlock chided.

  
“Yes, but… ever?”

  
“Yes, John. Ever.”

  
“No one else?”

  
Sherlock sighed, “When I was a teenager I wanked regularly over basically anything, so I suppose the statement isn’t wholly accurate; but since my adulthood, yes.”

  
“Then… you’re still a…”

  
“Virgin, yes.”

  
“Bloody hell. Forty year old virgin,” John stammered, as if it were impossible.

  
“I don’t see how age matters.”

  
“Of course age matters, I mean if you were a fourteen year old virgin it would be common, twenty-four you’re just  
haven’t found anyone, thirty-four you’re saving yourself, but forty…”

  
“John that’s ridiculous and utterly pedestrian. I could care less about having sex let alone loosing my virginity. Just look what a mess it makes you. Current girlfriend won’t put out so you lost your temper at me and wanked in front of me? No thank you, I like having a bit of self restraint… not to mention self respect.”

  
“She’s just… picky.”

  
“She’s just hanging around for the fame.”

  
John didn’t argue it and Sherlock didn’t push it. They sat in silence for several more minutes while a German soldier in a poorly replicated costume and a stereotypical moustache became flustered and yelled at the POW’s before suddenly making nice with them again; how utterly unrealistic.

  
“How… attached to me are you? Is it awful?” John ventured.

  
“No.”

  
“Be honest with me, Sherlock, this is important.”

  
“No, it isn’t awful, yes, I’m very attached to you.”

  
“Could you… do you…?” John sighed, apparently not sure how to phrase his question. Sherlock wasn’t about to help  
him.

  
“Is this a comedy?” Sherlock asked instead.

  
“Yes,” John replied, and then jumped into it the way John usually did, “If we had sex would you be able to let things go back the way they were or would it destroy our friendship? Be as analytical as you can, please.”

  
Sherlock blinked at him, “My analysis is quite simple, you are heterosexual.”

  
“Yes, but I might be willing to make an exception. Just once. Just for one night. For your birthday.”

  
“Let me see if I understand this right, you’re proposing that for my birthday, you give me… what? Your arse? Because  
  
I find it rather hard to believe that you’ll be able to maintain an erection long enough to penetrate me.”

  
“Okay, yeah, that’s… probably right. Is right. Okay. So, yes or no?”

  
“You’re serious?” Sherlock scoffed, “You’re offering to let me fuck you for my birthday?”

  
“You don’t have to be crude about it, I’m trying to help,” John protested, looking offended.

  
“Help how? By getting rid of my pesky virginity?” Sherlock fluttered his hands to illustrate the comedic assumption.

  
“Exactly!” John exclaimed, looking rather proud of himself.

  
“And how, exactly does that help? There’s a reason they call it _loosing_ your virginity, John. It isn’t something to be desired.”

  
“You don’t know that, you’ve never had sex!”

  
“I do know that, I’ve wanked. Adding another person to the mix just complicates it.”

  
“No, it makes it a thousand times better, but I can agree to the complicated part,” John sighed, “I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.”

  
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to think.

  
“How is it better?”

  
“What, sex with someone else instead of your hand?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“It just… feels better. Hotter. More satisfying. More exciting. More… everything. It’s bloody _fantastic_.”

  
“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied, his mind caught up in how he’d fantasized about it being John’s hand not 12 hours ago.

  
“If you want… we could find someone. I don’t know, a look alike?”

  
“It isn’t your physical appearance I’m drawn to, John, it’s you. Your personality and the way you treat me.”

  
“That’s… damn flattering.”

  
“Your welcome.”

  
They left it go and slept as usual, with a pillow between them and Sherlock secretly holding John after he’d dropped off to sleep. Except, now his mind was engaged and he found himself with an unprecedented second erection within a 24-hour period. The thought of John laid out beneath him, panting in desire, writhing on Sherlock’s cock… but it wouldn’t happen that way. John wouldn’t be aroused by it. He’d be flaccid and probably biting the pillow to keep from crying out in discomfort. True, if Sherlock stimulated his prostate enough his body would climax despite lack of attraction…

  
Those thoughts only made the wheels turn in Sherlock’s head all the faster and he slipped off to the shower to toss one off again while his mind recalled every inch of human anatomy he’d ever learned. He applied it to John’s height and weight, estimating where certain erogenous zones would be. This was the first time he’d ever imagined himself pleasuring John, instead of picturing a quick satisfying touch here or there. He was overwhelmed by the desire it evoked in him and came so hard he cried out, his voice surprised and alarmed, and then promptly slipped and fell. John was out of bed and into the bathroom in an instant, jerking back the curtains, turning off the water, and kneeling down to see if he was harmed.

  
“Just bumped my head a bit,” Sherlock stated, his head spinning more from the force of his climax than the bump to his head.

  
“Let’s get you out of there,” John coaxed, and fetched him a towel. Sherlock accepted it, along with John’s hand up, and sat down on the toilet to dry himself off.

  
John double-checked his head for signs of bumps, found him a packet of painkillers, and left him to it. By the time Sherlock exited the bathroom he’d made his mind up. He thought about it the entire flight back to England and the entire cab ride home. He thought about it as he flopped down on the sofa. He thought about it as John picked up the paper and started reading out parts to him as he always did.

  
“John…” Sherlock hesitated.

  
“Just say when so I can shower first. I’d prefer to be rather scrupulously clean.”

  
Sherlock blinked in surprise but John didn’t look up from the paper: “Did you just deduce _me_?”

  
“No, you’re shockingly transparent when sex is on your brain,” John snickered, “That and you shouted my name at the hotel.”

  
“I did?”

  
“Yep.”

  
“Oh. Well. I’ll have to keep better control on that. Just once, after all.”

  
John nodded and Sherlock left to tidy his room but then thought better of it and decided he wanted it to be in _John’s_ room. He didn’t want it blending in with all the fantasies he’d had over the years, and they’d all taken place in his own room. Sherlock tried not to wonder if that meant he lacked imagination.

  
When he finally decided what, when, and where, he came out and told John his specific requests, all the way down to what John would be wearing. John was very polite about it and repeated it back before heading to the shower to wash up as he’d mentioned. He then went up to his room and called down to Sherlock when he was ready.

  
Sherlock stepped into John’s room in just his robe and pants; he rather thought anything more would be unnecessary. John had lubricant and condoms out and waiting, as he’d mentioned he would, and Sherlock eyed them nervously.

  
“It’s fine, Sherlock, I’m not expecting a performance; just two mates getting off together, and if I don’t that’s fine, too.  
Like you said, I probably won’t anyway. Not a problem.”

  
“Right. Yes. Okay.”

  
“Did you want some sort of scene?”

  
“Scene?”

  
“Do you want me to pretend like we’re lovers or boyfriends or whatever?”

  
Sherlock thought about it, his mind flashing through the sounds John might make and what it would be like to hear him call his name, but stopped it right there.

  
“I think that would be a bit not good for the aftermath, don’t you?”

  
“I suppose, so, yeah.”

  
“Just… react normally, and for god’s sake tell me to stop if you must. I don’t want you hating me after.”

  
“I’ll do that, yeah.”

  
Sherlock slipped off his robe and John stood and waited for Sherlock to take off his as he’d asked to. Sherlock undid the tie slowly and ran his fingers over John’s shoulders, watching as the material slid down and pooled on the floor. John was bare beneath, his cock not showing an ounce of interest, but Sherlock planned to do his best to alter that. He slipped his arms around John’s shoulders and held him close, simply breathing in his scent and absorbing the warmth of his body. He was already half-hard and was glad that John didn’t flinch away when his member pressed against him. He seemed quite calm, and a glance at his eyes let Sherlock know he wasn’t trying to picture himself elsewhere.  
  
He was simply relaxed.

  
Sherlock intended to do anything and everything he’d ever thought to do with John. When he had him spread out for his perusal he kneeled between his thighs and ran his hands over the smooth plains of his body, caressing the dips and curves and running his fingers through the hairs on his chest, stomach, thighs, and calves before leaning forward and exploring the thatch at his crotch with both hands and face. John’s breath caught in surprise as Sherlock nuzzled his face against his bollocks, but he didn’t protest so he took his time to caress and cup them.

  
Next he lifted himself up and ran his fingers across the tan man’s brown nipples, watching with wide eyes as they beaded up under his ministrations. He leaned down to run his tongue around them, enjoying the soft flesh around it in contrast with the hardened nipples. He flicked them with his tongue, enjoying the little jumps that resulted, gave them a nip and heard a disapproving sound- Sherlock chuckled, but didn’t try that again.

  
Sherlock moved up to John’s neck, kissing and mouthing him hungrily, enjoying the contrast when he found a bit of stubble John had missed when shaving. He was suckling on his neck before he thought to ask, but John only craned his neck further, allowing Sherlock better access to mark him. Sherlock moaned contentedly, thrilled that he would be able to see the results of this encounter for a day or two afterwards.

  
Sherlock worked his back down again, exploring with his mouth where he had touched with his hands, his tongue exploring the ridges of John’s still somewhat defined abs before dipping into his belly button. That earned a chuckle so Sherlock did it once more before moving on. Now he kissed and nipped at the dips on either side of his hips and John squirmed a bit, but since he got no protest he did it a few more times just to feel him writhe. Down to his groin again, where he breathed in the increasingly musky scent and noticed a twitch or two from John’s still limp member.

  
He lifted each leg and ran his cheek along the thighs, dipping his head down so he could lick beneath his knees before kissing his way down to his ankles and slid his tongue along the groove on each side. John had tensed quite a bit, but if he was worried Sherlock was going to explore his feet with his mouth he was wrong, instead he planted both on either of his thighs and lifted them one at a time to massage them gently. John moaned appreciatively.

  
“This you can do to me anytime,” He quipped, and Sherlock chuckled a bit, hoping he was serious since _any_ kind of touch would be appreciated.

  
Once he had gotten John to relax a bit more with his massage he slipped up his body and stretched out overtop of him, pressing their lips together for the first time. The kiss was slow and chaste, and once John realized Sherlock honestly didn’t know what to do he guided him a bit, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and smiling a bit at the moans that resulted.

  
“That,” Sherlock breathed as he leaned back, “That is surprisingly erotic.”

  
“Now you know why it’s done so often,” John chuckled.

  
“It’s awfully filthy,” Sherlock replied back informatively.

  
“Yes, but so are some of the other things you’ll be doing to me tonight, or did you have no rimming or anal sex planned?”

  
Sherlock’s mind nearly blanked on him. He hadn’t honestly planned on rimming, but now it was out there he was curious. John had mentioned he’d cleaned thoroughly.

  
“Uh, oh, I can see those wheels turning, I’ve stepped in it now, haven’t I?” John chuckled.

  
Sherlock smirked and slid down John’s body to run his tongue curiously over the man’s still limp member.

  
“Ah, Sherlock,” John stammered, looking uncomfortable for the first time, “You probably shouldn’t… I mean, I don’t mind, but I don’t think you’ll get much out of it.”

  
“Do you want me to stop?”

  
“N… no. It’s fine.”

  
John smiled supportively and Sherlock dipped his head back down to lathe his member a bit. He pulled back the foreskin gently and ran his tongue over the parts he knew were most sensitive on his own penis. He got no response at first, but that didn’t stop him from imitating the videos he’d watched in preparation for this moment while John showered, and sucking gently at him until John hardened just a bit. That was encouraging and he soon was working his mouth over an increasingly hardening shaft. He glanced up to see John with his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

_  
He’s not here anymore_.

  
“John?”

  
“Hmm?”

  
“John, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’d rather no reaction at all than a false one. I want you here with _me_ , not some imaginary lover.”

  
John opened his eyes and sighed, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with an apologetic look. Sherlock felt him wilt in his fingers but pressed a kiss to the tip nonetheless and went back to stimulating him as best he could. He got John half hard again before giving up and pressing his legs apart. This posed a dilemma, because his lack of experience made him hesitant to perform this next step while unable to see what he was doing. A change of position was required.

  
“Would you turn over on your hands and knees?”

  
John nodded and performed the maneuver without reluctance and Sherlock spread those surprisingly round cheeks to stare down at the tightly clenched hole before him.

  
“I thought you might prefer I shave, but I didn’t think to ask before I showered. I can go do that now if you want?”

  
“No, this is fine. This is how you normally are,” Sherlock decided, though a shaved John would be quite a sight; he had to leave _something_ to fantasize about.

  
He leaned forward and smelled first, not entirely sure if he wanted to, but John smelled of John and soap down there, so he was immediately relieved. Encouraged Sherlock ran his tongue along his perineum to see how he responded to that. John jumped a bit, and Sherlock got a few hairs in his mouth- a bit annoying, but easily removed. Sherlock did it again and was rewarded with a little breathy sound. He decided some caressing was in order and reached around to stroke John’s cock as he lathed his tongue up higher. John was responding a bit now, his member hardening halfway once more, and Sherlock got bolder because of it and pressed a kiss to his entrance. John gasped and Sherlock repeated it then started firming up his tongue and rubbing the rough and soft sides up and down. John shifted and bucked back a bit, moaning enthusiastically and Sherlock felt him reach full hardness and even leak a bit. Sherlock speared his tongue and pushed inside and John most definitely pushed back this time. A few quick thrusts and he decided it was time to move forward before the man became withdrawn again. He murmured into his flesh for John to pass the lube and was rewarded with a few twitches of his cock.

  
Sherlock moistened his fingers with difficulty since he wasn’t willing to let go of John’s firm cock, but he managed it and then was soon sliding a digit around his entrance. John was breathing a bit fast, and sounded nervous to Sherlock, but wasn’t pulling away or asking to stop. Sherlock pressed a single digit in, slowly allowing John to adjust to the first intrusion into his person. John held his breath, but released it and relaxed considerably once he was fully inside.  
  
Sherlock wriggled it a bit, looking for his prostate, but had no luck. He slipped the finger in and out a few times and added a second, arching it again. This time he found the spot and quickly memorized it’s location when the result was a gasp, buck, and eager twitch from John’s member. He stroked it a few more times before scissoring his fingers and then slipped in a third. What he’d read said it wasn’t usually necessary, but he wasn’t going to risk John feeling pain on what very well might be their only time together. Besides, he knew himself to be well endowed.

  
Once John was accepting all three fingers with ease, though he began to wilt again, Sherlock purposely stroked his prostate a few times to firm him up again, before slipping a condom on, slicking himself up, and positioning himself at his entrance. That was where he stalled. He wanted to see John’s face, but turning him around might very well halt all the progress they’d made.

  
“Like this, or would you allow me to turn you round?”

  
“This is for you, Sherlock, whatever you want,” John replied, and then turned over before Sherlock could decide.

  
Sherlock watched as he gripped himself and gave a few hard pulls, trying to keep himself hard for Sherlock, and he left him to it while cautiously positioning himself once more. Sherlock gasped at the first tight clench as he pressed inside, his entire body breaking out in a hot sweat, and very nearly lost himself. John was right – this was nothing like fucking his own hand, and he wasn’t even all the way _inside_ yet. After pausing a moment to get a grip on himself he glanced down to find John still stroking his hard member, giving a little twist of his wrist at the top each time.

_  
Have to remember that_. Sherlock instructed himself, and then pressed further inside.

  
Sherlock looked up at that moment, and found John was propped up on his free arm and watching the progress with as much fascination as Sherlock had been. His mouth was open in a little ‘O’ and his eyes were wide. Sherlock felt himself bottom out, his bollocks firmly against John’s damp arse, and gasped a few times as John’s muscles clenched a bit around him.

  
“Don’t… I’ll come if you…” Sherlock pleaded, not wanting this to end yet.

  
“Sorry…” John panted, “Just happened.”

  
Sherlock dropped his head to John’s shoulder and the man lay back down flat again. They paused there while Sherlock gasped and tried to stave off his impending orgasm and John gently stroked his back with his free hand. He wasn’t used to this. He normally pushed it out as quickly as possible, but now he found himself wanting this to last _hours_ , and it simply wasn’t going to happen. Finally he felt confident enough to move and began a slow glide out. John had continued to stroke himself and now that Sherlock was pressing back in again without any sign of loosing immediate control, he pushed his hand away and clasped it himself. Sherlock started a steady rhythm, stroking John in time with his own thrusts and doing that twist at the tip John had been doing. He was having trouble reaching the angle he wanted, though, and pushed himself up on one hand. John’s eyes were glazed, but open, his mouth opening and closing as he panted or licked his lips. He was beautiful; his face and torso flushed with desire and a light sheen of sweat making him practically glow in the low lamplight.

  
Sherlock sped up despite his desire to prolong this fantastic moment; he couldn’t hold himself back forever. He saw the moment he found John’s prostate again in the reaction his entire body took on, clenching and arching in surprise, his eyes widening and then rolling back in his head.

  
“Oh, gods,” John moaned, and Sherlock thrust harder still.

  
He was so close. So _close_ , but he couldn’t finish without John and the man was hovering right on the cusp. He could tell by the way he clenched him and then relaxed again, as though he were afraid to come while Sherlock were inside of him. Sherlock leaned forward and captured his lips again, hoping more stimulation would bring him over the edge, and was rewarded with a ravaging kiss as John apparently had the same idea. Sherlock was shamelessly sucking on the man’s tongue when he suddenly felt John’s entire body clench and arch, then hot liquid hit his stomach and coated his hand. John grunted and moaned a bit, and Sherlock released his mouth to pound into him relentlessly in search of his own waylaid climax. This apparently had the effect of milking John’s prostate because he squirmed and cried out, his cock twitching and another spurt flying onto his abdomen. The sight threw Sherlock over the edge and he came hard, his eyes rolling back in his head as his bollocks drew up tight and seemed to empty into John forever.

  
He had no idea he was babbling until after he found himself drawing in a breath for more air to continue, then his eyes flew open and he stared at John in horror. What had he said? Something about John being tight, beautiful, had he called him sexy? He was rather certain he’d claimed to love him. John was smiling and panting a bit and he reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

  
“Hey, no regrets, yeah? Worth it?”

  
Sherlock nodded and laid his head down on John’s shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.

  
“No. Regrets. Worth. Every. Second.” He panted, ignoring the ache in his chest that said he should have made it last longer.

  
“Hmmm, I should have touched you more,” John said.

  
“No. Regrets.” Sherlock panted, then added, “Shower?”

  
“Mmm, yeah.”

  
Sherlock eased out, making John hold still so he could check for blood, but found none. They headed to the bathroom in their robes, both snickering at John’s awkward gate, and climbed in to share a shower. Sherlock happily scrubbed John up and down and John took the time to do the same to him. They staggered into Sherlock’s bedroom this time and John undressed again at Sherlock’s request.

  
“It’s still my birthday,” he insisted, pointing out the clock, “Three more hours.”

  
John relented and laughingly fell into bed with him. He held a conscious John tightly in his arms, waiting for the moment his breath evened out, before he let himself breathe a shuddering sigh. The tears fell silently, controlled, never with a sob to stir John’s body beside him. He couldn’t let himself hope, despite John’s pleasurable response. He wasn’t a young man, and redefining his entire sexuality at his age might be something he simply wasn’t willing to do, no matter how open-minded he’d been about letting Sherlock shag him. It had been very clear that stimulus alone was responsible for John’s orgasm; they’d both had to work for it very hard. Hell, even some rape victims climaxed, a physiological response was not something to change ones entire lifestyle over, and that was certainly something a doctor was aware of.

  
Sherlock woke to the feel of John’s lips tightly wrapped around his member, head bobbing and cheeks hollowed as his tongue stroked the underside of his cock. He took one look down and was unable to stop himself from thrusting up into his mouth. John was apparently expecting that, because he had a fist wrapped around the base to stop Sherlock going too deep. Instead he let Sherlock grab onto his head and fuck his mouth fast and hard until he was coming into his mouth with a startled cry. Sherlock lay still, panting and sweating and floating on a cloud of afterglow. He knew  
  
John was spitting out his come, but he could hardly care at the moment. It probably wasn’t the tastiest thing first thing in the morning anyway.

  
“Happy Birthday, Sherlock,” John chuckled a bit, “I’m going to go put on a kettle. You want coffee or tea this morning… er… I mean afternoon?”

  
“Uh huh,” Sherlock replied. John chuckled again and headed out into the kitchen.

  
“Damn, we slept half the day away, must have been the jetlag,” John called back to him.

  
Sherlock lay still for a moment and pondered. His birthday was technically over, did that mean…? He stopped his whirling thoughts when he heard the kettle whistle and simply threw on his robe to walk out into the kitchen. John had taken the time to dress and was looking his usual self. If it weren’t for the mark on his neck Sherlock would think it had all been a bittersweet dream.

  
“I made toast, too,” John announced, grabbing his cup and a buttered slice and heading for the living room.

Sherlock collected his tea and a slice of dry toast and headed in as well. John was perched in his chair with the newspaper already open. Sherlock sat opposite him and studied him curiously as John started his usual habit of reading the stories out loud. Sherlock barely heard him. Sherlock watched John carefully the entire day and John behaved exactly as always, never once putting more or less distance between them. Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch him several times, but restrained himself.

_  
“Just this once_ , _Sherlock,”_ John’s words echoed in his mind over and again.

That night when it grew late and John started yawning Sherlock’s entire body tensed. He would find out now. John would either dive in head first and invite Sherlock to bed or himself into Sherlock’s, or he would go upstairs with his usual ‘Night, Sherlock. Try not to be too loud; some of us actually sleep at night.’.

  
John stood, stretched, scratched at his side and smiled down at where Sherlock sat tapping away at his own laptop – John had been using his own. Sherlock smiled back up at him and tried not to make it obvious that he was holding his breath.

  
“Night, Sherlock. Try not to be too loud; some of us actually sleep at night,” John quipped, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he usually did.

  
Sherlock didn’t allow himself to react until after John had finished puttering about the bathroom and kitchen. Once John was well and truly tucked up in his own bed, the soft creaking of his bed and the floorboards silenced as the man dropped off to sleep, Sherlock put the laptop aside and took a deep breath. He analyzed his feelings and took firm stock in his reactions; his chest ached and his arms felt empty. His bed sounded like a cold and lonely place.

  
He had two options:

1)   Face the consequences of his actions and learn to live with the results no matter how painful.

2)   Delete last night from his memory so it couldn’t plague him for the rest of his life.

  
Sherlock’s mind played over the sensations, bringing them to the front in startling contrast. He could recall every scent, every inch of varying texture on John’s body, every soft or hard area, the color of his skin and the sounds he made during arousal and orgasm. Everything was there for him, as clearly as if it were real and happening in this very moment.

  
It no longer aroused him. Instead it created a sharp, constricting pain in his chest and brought dampness to his eyes. In time, eventually, the idea of John spread out beneath him might arouse him again, but for now it brought only sadness and a sense of loss. He could delete this, and go back to quiet longing; never knowing what he was missing, and not having this entire new wing of his Mind Palace devoted to ‘Sex With John’. He could turn back time and be his same sentiment free self again, not realizing that ‘loving John’ could be a physical act as well as a quiet and distant devotion to him.

  
Except he was no longer the same person as he had been before last night. He wasn’t even certain deleting the night would change anything; in fact it might make things worse as he just might blurt out a confession all over again and beg John to love him back. Now he at least knew what was causing the intensity of his emotions, and he had a beautiful night to remember them by.

  
In the end he kept every memory, even the part where he’d wept while holding him in his arms, and if he cried on occasion afterwards it was with a soft smile on his lips.

  
John never gave him any indication that he wanted to repeat their experiment together. Not in the days that followed, and not in the years that followed after. Eventually John stopped dating all together, claiming he was too old to pull women, and they became quiet old bachelors together. Sherlock cherished every moment with him as he watched John turn grey, gain weight around his middle, and develop a very real limp from arthritis.

  
However, it was Sherlock who ended up with a ticking clock hanging over his head, as he collapsed one day while chasing a man down an alley. One moment he was running and the next he was on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to figure out how he’d ended up in such utter pain. Had he been shot?

  
He heard John calling an ambulance, heard the word ‘heart attack’, but couldn’t understand how John could call in his own heart attack and Sherlock was too young for one.

_  
I’m only fifty-nine,_ He thought uselessly as they loaded him into the ambulance and a worried John gripped his hand tightly.

  
The doctors explained it to them both a few hours later, once Sherlock had been stabilized. It was all the years of drug use and smoking. His heart was weak. There were surgeries, but they were years too late to be very effective. They gave Sherlock a year, two at the most to live and commended John for keeping him as healthy as he had. Apparently a life expectancy for an ex-drug addict was far shorter than 60.

  
“But I can’t die first,” Sherlock argued uselessly, “John’s already buried me once. It isn’t _fair_.”

  
John had to excuse himself from the room, but it didn’t stop Sherlock hearing him sob.

  
They moved out to the country then, hoping a change of environment would help Sherlock maintain health, and were happy for a time. Sherlock spent a great deal of time in bed, two surgeries, and a few heart attacks having limited his mobility. He took time to tell John more stories, catching him up on cases that had happened before they had met and some he’d missed while out of town at times. John recorded them all and talked about publishing them in a proper book as opposed to on a blog. Sherlock thought it a grand idea and encouraged him, filling in details that his blog lacked and chatting about covers.

  
When Sherlock started going spare from boredom it was John who found him a new way to occupy his mind. He’d found a bunch of bee houses in a shed and moved them outside. He ordered a queen and a few workers and set up a colony for Sherlock insisting he’d enjoy observing them. Sherlock had scoffed at it in the beginning, but soon found himself comfortably seated in his wheelchair, oxygen nearby, and a bee net over his head as he jotted down notes on a pad of paper. One colony expanded to several and he was well on his way to writing his own book. He did experiments on them and killed off a colony, but John wasn’t too upset about it and just ordered him more bees.John planted flowers for the bees and Sherlock unashamedly admired his arse. He was going to fat in his old age, but  
Sherlock still thought he was gorgeous. He loved the man more every day.  
  
Sometimes at night John would slip into Sherlock’s room and sleep in the chair by his bed. Twice he curled up with him, careful of the oxygen cords, and just held his hand all night. During one of these nights he started asking Sherlock careful questions, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock understood what he meant. He reached up with one shaking hand (when had he gone so thin and frail?) and removed his mask a moment to make sure his answer was clearly heard.

  
“No regrets, John.”


End file.
